


puzzle pieces (take me apart and put me back together)

by nbsherlock



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4563453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbsherlock/pseuds/nbsherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>uh</p>
            </blockquote>





	puzzle pieces (take me apart and put me back together)

**Author's Note:**

> forget all knowledge of injury. when you are punched your bones don't break. this is true. bones are INDESTRUCTIBLE

it's always right after a tour. 

he loves touring, he does. he loves the boys and he loves the fans and he loves his job, god he loves his job. but it gets to be too much. always a bit too much. 

too many cameras, too many lights, too much screaming and yelling and by the end of it he's out of on-stage banter and he just wants to get home. 

you know he does, he's told you. 

these conversations happen before, when you're sitting in a crowded coffee shop in the very corner in the middle of nowhere and his hand is in yours and he's shaking a bit but he keeps a running dialogue with you. he talks about the boys and the shows and how sleeping in hotels is lovely but he just wants to be at home sometimes. you run your thumb along his knuckles. he shivers. 

he's overstimulated, it's obvious. he just needs to be taken down a couple notches. he has you for that. he's always got you, when he comes home. 

he sips a latte (coffee is a bad idea when he's already so jittery but you don't have the heart to argue with him when he's like this-- pumped full of energy, left over adrenaline and yet absolutely exhausted) and smiles at you. it's weak, but you accept it. you want to bundle him up in your arms and hold him for a bit but you're in public and have a feeling that's not exactly what he needs. 

you can sense the moment his acceptance of his surroundings becomes discomfort and slip him out the back to your car. he slides in and practically collapses. you get in on the other side and tell him to buckle up. he doesn't, of course. 

he's obstinate, at this point. he knows what's coming and he wants to make it worse when it happens. you don't bother arguing. you lean across him and strap him in. you can't tell if the refusal to do it himself is in legitimate exhaustion or because he's being a bit of a brat. he huffs at you. you'd wager the latter. 

by the time you arrive home (your place, small, comfortable. more suited for what's about to unfold.) he's testy. he keeps making that face at you that makes your blood run a bit hot. the one where he scrunches up his eyebrows and his mouth and you swear if he were younger he'd be sticking his tongue at you. 

you know this is all part of the game, the thrill of the chase. he's drawing it out as much as he can so when push comes to shove the shove is rough and painful. he wouldn't act like this with you normally. he's just playing his role. 

and with him setting the stage, you feel free to take your place as well. you grab him by the hair, at the very ends so when you pull the sting lasts longer. he gasps. not hard enough for any real vocalization. harder, then. he cries out, hands flying to his head, trying to swat yours off. he's not really trying. you know, if he wanted to, he could stop you, but as you tighten your grip and yank harder, he does nothing but shout again. 

you drag him by the hair to your bedroom. he hasn't started his begging yet, which bodes well for the rest of the scene. when you reach your bedroom you prop him up on the edge of your bed and take his face in your hands. "words?"

"red for stop, yellow for pause, green for go," he says. he's a bit weepy already. that's also good. he likes the release that crying during a scene brings. he doesn't get to cry often (boys don't cry, especially not ones in internationally acclaimed boy bands) and when he does, he makes a show of it. 

you nod once, curt, and stand him up again. you don't want to hurt him too badly at first. he likes to be hit but hitting isn't on the table yet. he needs a bit of a warm up. 

you sit down on the bed and take him over your knees. you don't do this bit often. he prefers to get right to action but he's been away for so long. he doesn't need that yet. 

you give him a hard swat on the seat of his trousers. not hard enough to do any damage, not even enough to leave a mark. he's still dressed. you give him a few like that before having him stand and undress. 

this isn't sexual, this thing between the two of you. sometimes, in the aftermath, he craves kisses and cuddling but that's as far as it goes between the two of you. chaste touches of lips and limbs wrapped around eachothers. 

he lays over your knees again and this time when you bring down your hand he feels it. he sighs a bit. he's used to a higher caliber of pain but he knows that this has to be done before he gets it. you give him several swats until his cheeks are red and warm. he keens a bit. he's not crying, not yet, but he will be. he wants to be. 

you quietly ask him what he wants next, paddle, whip, crop. he wants the paddle. you have to give him what he wants at this stage. you want him pliant. you don't want the bratty boy from earlier. he bends over the bed, hands braced on the comforter. 

"count," you say. 

he does. he always does as you say. you bring the paddle down twenty times before stopping and checking colors with him. 

"green," he croaks. he's tearing up a bit, a few rolling down his cheeks. he likes this, the middle ground between the light spanks from earlier and what he truly wants. 

his arse is bright red and looks like it might bruise. you bring your hand up and run your nails over the welts, hard. he shouts, the sound taking on a higher octave than his normal voice. you smile. this is going well.

"a few more?" he pauses. "please?"

"okay. ten?"

"yes, please."

you give them to him slowly, stretching the time between them out so he can fully enjoy the sting and ache of each impact. 

by the end he's drooling down his chin and has shed more than a few tears. his legs are shaking. you prop him up on his feet. they line up with yours. you're still wearing your boots. 

you confirm colors with him again and give him a proper forewarning about what you're about to do. 

"you want that, yes?"

"yes, please. god, please"

so, you give it to him. 

you swipe his legs out from underneath him with one kick and he falls to the floor. he grunts as he hits the ground. it sounds like music to you. you give him a firm kick to his side, stepping hard on his ankle, his knee caps, kicking him in the stomach. he makes the desperate noises that mean he wants this, he wants it to hurt. 

you meet him on the floor and grab him by the hair, slamming his head back on the ground. then, you rear back and punch him in the jaw. he cries out, helpless. he's blubbering like a baby now. he wants it to stop. he wants it to keep going. god, he wants it to keep going. 

you punch him and slap him and pull his hair over and over again and he's looking less and less like the boy you were sitting with in the coffee shop. he looks lovely. he looks perfect. 

his nose is bleeding and his arse scrapes against the floor, no doubt irritating the welts to the point that they're bleeding. you'll have to have him clean that up later. 

the last step of the scene is crucial. he wants to be reduced to nothing. he wants to die and be brought back to life. he doesn't only want it. he needs it. he needs this. 

he needs to look in the mirror and see a wrecked, bloody man where he usually sees a polished, perfect boy. 

you wind your fist back one final time and land your punch right in his teeth. he screams, his arms scrambling for  
purchase on the ground but not finding any. you rear your arm back again and punch him in the cheekbone. 

he's crying now. those big blubbering tears that remind you of an infant. he's okay. he's fine. he's perfect

you pick him up off the floor and check his behind. it's a bit bloody but you can fix it. you take him into the bathroom and clean him up with water and a wash cloth. he hisses at the scrape of it against his raw skin. 

you wipe off his face and check for any broken or fractured bones. there aren't any. you're very careful. he needs the fear and the impending strike more than the pain that follows. you patch him up, like always. 

you take him apart and patch him up again. 

you take him back to bed and sit him down. there's already a glass of water next to the bed and you coax it into his hand, helping him take small sips. he's still crying a bit, but you know he's okay. 

he just needs time. 

you get permission to wrap your arms around his shaking form and then stroke his hair. he likes this part. where every bone aches and he's bloody and bruised but his mind is calm, and so are you. your peace of mind makes him relax into your arms. 

he turns his face to yours and you  
plant a small kiss on his lips. he likes that too. he likes you to take care of him. 

"everything okay?" you ask. 

he nods. he can't talk quite yet. 

"you tired?"

he nods again. leans back further against you. you pull the blankets over his eerily still form and let him rest his head on your belly. 

he sighs. he turns his face into your skin and mouths "thank you". 

"you're welcome," you say. "you're welcome."


End file.
